


The Last Wolf

by EmeraldTerror



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memory Loss, Old Age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldTerror/pseuds/EmeraldTerror
Summary: Geralt has grown old. no longer remembering his life Regis decided to retell the White Wolfs stories for the last time.





	1. The old wolf

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters will be added. First time writing so i will be very glad to receive some feedback.  
> sorry for any spelling/grammar errors.

No Witcher has ever died in his own bed at least not yet. Thought Geralt is getting very close.  


He tried to remember his age and he thought back to himself, a young Witcher ridding out of Kaer Morhen already looking like on old man due to the snow-white hair on his head. Then trying to do something, Ciri something to do with his daughter the former Empress of Nilfgard. But he just couldn’t place those memories he had seen in flashes the attack on Kear Morhen and then the Wild Hunt. His friends they were all gone. Dandelion aged well, ran the Rosemary and Thyme for decades after Geralt had left. Last he heard of Zoltan he had retired back in Mahakam and lived beyond two hundred years. Ciri was long gone too but as he tried to remember how and why it escaped his mind. Yennefer was still around, and she didn’t age a day so was Regis who often came around if only to look at the frail witcher. If anything, Regis seemed to be getting younger. BB also aged and handed down his role to his son, and his son did the same after that, how many generations passed. Geralt truly didn’t know.  


Geralt opened his eyes as he heard the door creak. Though it didn’t change much his vision blurred over the centuries and now he was unable to see his hand in front of him. But he could still smell the distinct herbs that Regis always carried on him. Regis looked like a man outside of time, still wearing the same grey doublet that seemed out of place compared to the tailored suits and top hats that were now worn by those of noble roots or those with noble careers.  


Regis stood still and silent looking at the old man with cloudy yellow eyes that was at one point known as the Butcher of Blaviken. He lay on the bed that was placed there long ago when the manor was extended. But here he lay. Motionless. As still as a lake and yet he was the same man that was known all through the Empire. Geralt’s breathing was slow his heart was no longer as strong as that of four men. But still held the same rhythm as it did all those years ago. Regis couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth to the old witcher, for he had lived longer than the rest of the witchers, but the medic in Regis knew the look of death. It was always pale and thin. A part of Regis wanted to stop the inevitable fate that all humans eventually met but he knew he couldn’t. Not even a higher vampire could give life back to the dead.  


Regis snapped out of that thought as he heard the old wolf speak.  


“Why are you here?” the witcher asked with a genuine curiosity in his voice.  


Regis sighed, his friend’s memory faded with age to a point where each visit started with the same question. “I’m here to see how you are doing.” Regis thought to himself it was downright depressing seeing the man who caused many well remembered tales to be born to be so weak and fragile. The witcher did more than defeat the wild hunt he also helped an old dilapidated estate to become something new something better and yet he now lay there barely hanging onto the threads of life that at this point were more of a curse than a blessing. This is the man who lived through the life and death of whole religions, empires and cities. And now he lay on white sheets unable to see the life around him.  


Geralt broke the defanging silence that echoed thought the room. “How old am I?”  


The witcher asked Regis could read Geralt’s confused look through the cloudy eyes as the old man tried to figure out this simple question the gears grinding in his brain only for no answer to be found

only an empty space where that knowledge should have been.  


Regis replied gently “You are over 500 years old. You have outlived the very thing that you were made to hunt. Let me tell you about those times.”


	2. Growing up 500 years ago.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story from Geralt's youth. not based on any book related events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwynbleidd White wolf elder speach

Regis sat down by the white wolf, sitting on the right of the witcher as last time Regis cheeked this was the side that Geralt could still see well enough. And so, Regis began. “Around 500 years ago your mother Vessina left you in the care of the wolf school of witchers, you were only a small babe around that time and well no one at the keep really knew what to do with you as they only had children over the age of six. That’s where you grew up with your life long friends Lambert and Eskel.” Regis paused as he saw a glimpse of recognition I the cloudy yellow eyes that looked like unpolished ambers set deep in Geralt’s face.

But it was only a glimpse before those ambers seemed to dull themselves. So, Regis continued “Vesimir was a fencing instructor that had tried to keep the mischievous witchers in training at bay, and though he tried he could not keep you three from doing something stupid every so often.  As no amount of cleaning or drills could stop you three from trying something different. There was the time when you discovered a forgotten area of the keep only to set it up as a headquarters where you and your friends planed your schemes. For example, during a Yule celebration when you were around ten and the other youngsters were about the same age. You decided to steal Vesimir’s prized hat and stick it on the top of the Yule tree.”  

At this point Regis was sure that he heard a muffled laugh coming from the old wolf.

“And well the hat was defiantly placed on the tree the only problem being that no one was quite sure how to get the blasted thing down. As when the witchers came back for the winter as tradition goes beer and wine and many bottles of dwarven spirit are consumed, how my dear friend your guild didn’t stop functioning during the collective hangover after the winter recedes, I have no idea, but I digress.” Regis caught himself talking in the present as if this still happens when in reality the old fortress in nothing more than some foundations and ruins, and the witchers are a dead species with the white wolf being the last one left. Eskel died during a contract somewhere in Cintra, Regis wasn’t sure what killed him, but he died a witchers death. Lambert on the other hand retired much like the white wolf and settled down in Kovir with Keira Metz. Lambert died of old age at three hundred and fifty-three years, though there was plenty of speculation that he lost his mind later in life and asked Keira in his more lucid moments to grant him a witchers death.

“So, as I was saying,” Regis continued, “No one was quite sure how to get the hat down from the Yule tree that reached high above the scaffolding that lined the ancient murals that decorated the main hall.  And so, the witchers bickered over the correct way of going about the retrieval of said hat.  Eventually it was settled that the best thing to do was to Aard the hat down. This only lead to more chaos as the hat came off the tree and glided its way around the hall and found its place in between a seldom used chest and the far wall.  Vesimir was furious from what I heard you were scrubbing down each inch of the keep for months after the incident. The hat was only found a few years before the Wild Hunt where Lambert spent his time perfecting an impression of Vesimir scolding you for some misadventure that you had.”

With a sigh Regis finished and looked into the witchers tiered eyes. His pale skin looked like fragile tissue in the light of the midmorning sun. So, Regis left the room in order to get some food for the witcher and continue the story of the Gwynbleidd.


	3. Midday at Carvo Bianco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis overhears one of the workers of the estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy Kudos and comments are always appreciated.

As Regis left the witcher’s room he was surprised to see Yennefer, who stood on the opposite side of the grand oak table that was placed in the main hall of the manor.

Yen asked in what was barely a whisper “How is he?”

The workers and maids around the room kept their heads down as they set to preparing the witchers meal, which was a blended soup of root vegetables and beef. Seemingly ignoring the presence of the higher vampire and sorceress. Regis sat down on one of the chairs that surrounded the table and waited until Yen follow suit.

“Quite honestly,” Regis started as he looked up to the violet eyes of the sorceress who didn’t seem a day older than what she was four hundred years ago. “I don’t think he has a lot of time left.” Regis stated as he tried to swallow past the lump at the back of his throat, last time he pissed of a mage he ended up being melted into a column of a certain castle. When he opened his eyes all he saw wasn’t a flash of lightning or ball of light coming from the sorceress but instead there was a small tear that welled up in the corner of her eye. Regis couldn’t help but follow suit. His long-time friend a world famous wicher is now dying. And even thought Regis knew that this happens to every human no mater how well known or powerful it happens to all. But he had hoped he wouldn’t see it happen.

Across the room Regis heard a hushed tone asking one of the workers who was cleaning the shelves that stored all the master crafted swords that the witcher has acquired over the years. “Is the mutant dead yet, it’s about time.”

Regis exploded in anger as he stormed towards the young man of about twenty-five years who was facing the wall that was carefully adorned with relics from the past. Regis stood about a foot from the man trying not to raise his voice and worry the wicher. “How dare you! That ‘mutant’ as you so gracefully put it has feed and clothed you and your family since before you were born.” Regis recognised the man. His father worked the fields and helped to store the wines in the cellar under the estate. “Tell me can you read and write?” Regis asked in the calmest manner possible and even this betrayed the rage that he was feeling at that moment.

The man answered without giving the vampire a second look “I can read and write like all over workers on the estate.  But what does it have to do with the freak who no one has seen in decades?”

“It has everything to do with the witcher or as how you should call him Master Geralt,” Regis snapped back at the man. “He pays for the education of his workers. Your father managed the fields of this estate and thus you were given an education that far surpasses that of others your age.” Regis could feel the blood boiling in his veins. “And as to why no one has seen Master Geralt in the past decades as you put it is due to him being an old and sick man.  As you should know Master Geralt is a witcher by trade, so he does not age as quickly as other humans allowing him to live for centuries. Unfortunately, all those who live will eventually succumb to death, and Master Geralt is no different for the past few years he has-” Regis was about to continue explaining to the young man in front of him why his assessment was incorrect but he was interrupted by Yennefer placing her gloved hand on Regis’ shoulder.


End file.
